Over Your Shoulder
by HpVamp
Summary: Killing a king pin like Bernie would always have a price, and Driver was always willing to deal with that price. But not with someone else in tow, who may or may not be what she seems.
1. Chapter 1

_''For the rest of your life, you're gonna be looking over your shoulder.''_

Bernie was right. That son of a bitch was right. It didn't matter how far he drove, how far from Los Angeles, from its filth - the emaciated whores staggering through the Hills, key bumps still trailing from their nostrils; its worthless pushers and gangsters; violent crime bosses who didn't think twice about putting a bullet in your head - no, it wasn't far enough.

Mostly, he couldn't get far enough away from himself.

Sure, he'd picked up before. Moved entire continents to escape something, some deal gone sour, someone who wanted his head on a plate. Hell, it wasn't long before he'd started using a fake name, then another, then used no name at all. He'd kept a pretty tidy existence then, leaving no friends, no lovers in his path, just to be sure no one would ever be hurt because of him, that he'd never have anything to lose.

Then he had met her.

The scenery changed outside of his '73 Cutlass, the rolling California hills to flattened, bowl-like desert; the desert to snow-capped mountains; the snow-capped mountains to endless rows of corn. The scenery changed, but he could have driven into the Atlantic Ocean before he was far enough away from Irene. All the things he had done to her, for her. All the things he was still doing for her - taking the shit storm that was sure to follow Bernie Rose's death across the country, making damn sure she would never see him, never be bothered by him again.

She would be safer that way. The whole world would be safer that way - without him.

Two days into his journey, and he turned off his rumbling engine in the parking lot of Ruby's Dagwood Cafe, just outside of Kansas City. It was quiet, early in the morning, just before the sun peaked from its bed of golden corn. He sat for a moment, surveying, waiting. He hadn't slept or eaten in days, needed a shave. His abdomen throbbed from a deep stab wound which hadn't stopped bleeding until this morning. His driving gloves smelled of motor oil, and the rusty smell of fresh blood, and they shook with fatigue and a seemingly endless supply of adrenaline. Still, he kept one hand on the ignition and the other on the wheel, his eyes darting for anything suspicious.

_There is no one here, _he thought. _This is bumfuck. You can get out now._

Minutes, what seemed like hours passed before his fingers found the door handle.

_ Come on, asshole. Move._

He pushed the handle down and opened the door, his worn Converse High Tops lightly touching the ground. He slowly stood up, his head dizzy from sitting, and steadied himself on the hood of the car, his other handing clutching his wound. He limped across the parking lot and through the front door, realizing all too late the effort it took to do so.

He sat down at the counter, on red cracked vinyl, and slowly, painfully slow, slid off one glove, then another. There were two men at a table in the corner. An old woman three seats down from him at the counter. Another man in the kitchen. The fluorescent bulbs flickered over head, the glare of them harsh against the shiny tiled floors and walls. He reached for a menu, a laminated paper disc just beyond his fingertips, and stared down at it. Eggs. Bacon. Sub-machine guns. Pancakes. Omelettes. Key bump from Columbia.

"What will you have, sugar?"

He looked up at the waitress, an aging red head with heavily lined eyes and yellowed teeth, her Southern accent spilling over the menu at him like molasses.

"Coffee. And two eggs over easy with a fruit bowl."

She blinked at him and raised an eyebrow, surveying his spattered jacket and five o' clock shadow.

"Are you sure that's all you want? We have a special today. Biscuits and gravy - "

"Just bring me what I asked for, please."

His voice was sharp, grating like sand paper. She eyed him warily, jumped back a little. There was a moment of silence between them as her eyes narrowed.

"Fine," she said, grabbing his menu and turning to the coffee pot.

He expelled a long breath, finally relaxing for the first time in days. "Sorry," he said, "it's just that I've -"

"No," she said, pouring his coffee, "I've worked at a diner off the interstate long enough to know not to ask questions." She set down his coffee, surveyed his jacket again, then added, "There's a dry cleaners around the corner. Opens in an hour, if you're interested."

Fifteen minutes later and she'd brought his eggs and fruit, and refilled his coffee twice. He practically inhaled his plate, finally realizing just how ravenous he was. In minutes, she'd brought the check, muttering something about how he should have gotten the biscuits and gravy.

He looked down at the thin paper slip in his hand: $7.75, a modest fee from what he was used to paying in LA. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and, finding nothing, reached into the other. Nothing.

_ God dammit, _he thought, _must've lost the fucking thing._ He looked at the waitress, who stared at him with her judgmental eyes, her no-bullshit eyes, waiting for him to tell her he needed to wash a few dishes.

He reluctantly reached inside his jacket and produced a roll of cash thousands, maybe hundred-thousands thick. Her eyes widened, her crow's feet unfolding, her mouth slack-jawed. He slipped the stressed rubber band from it and laid a hundred dollar bill on the table. She stared down at it and licked her lips, her dry tongue lolling from one side of her mouth to the other.

"I'll just get you some uh...change," she said, expelling a quick breath of air and clutching her heart.

"No," he said, catching her arm, "just...just take it. It's fine."

For a moment, it looked as though she would burst into tears, then as though she would have a heart attack. She stared at him, her blood red lips curling into a disbelieving snarl. Her eyes darted to the corner for a moment, then back to him as she leaned in close.

"Ok," she said in an almost-whisper, "I wasn't gonna tell you this, 'cause I didn't wanna get involved and frankly, it looks like you may have murdered somebody," her eyes moved again, "but those two gentlemen in the corner have been starin' at you ever since you walked in."

Slowly, he turned his head towards those two gentlemen, hoping, praying she was mistaken. She wasn't. And what was worse, he recognized them.

One man wasn't more than 20. He was some sort of Hispanic, with a white bandana that he doubled up to cover his forehead. He was dirty, looked as though he'd been up for a long time. The other man was older, maybe 45. He was white, Italian perhaps, with eyes that looked straight through the young Driver at the counter and side burns that met at his chin. Both of them had worked for Bernie Rose.

Driver turned slowly back towards the waitress, gripping his coffee so hard it could have broken. She looked at him knowingly, almost sadly, her heavily lined eyes brimming with fear. As she left his side to hide in the kitchen, the two men made their way toward the counter, the Hispanic one reaching inside his jacket.

Without hesitation, the Driver broke his scalding coffee on the Hispanic's face, and he fell to the ground, clutching his it and screaming. The Italian he elbowed quickly in the nose, then pushed into the counter and ran, ran like hell, to his trusty Cutlass, the more-boat-than-car monstrosity he'd chosen for its anonymity, not its speed. A bullet whizzed past his head, then another, clipping the mirror of the Cutlass and sending it crashing into the ground. He flung the door open so quickly it almost flew from its hinges, and he reached for his keys, jamming them into the ignition and letting the rumble of the car vibrate through his fingertips. Immediately, he felt ready, at ease - there was nothing he couldn't do.

As he peeled out of the parking lot, he checked his rear-view mirror and witnessed the two henchmen leaping over the hood of their Mustang and into the cabin. _A much faster car than this,_ he thought, his gloves squeaking on the steering wheel, _but I'll lose them. I have to lose them. _

He sped down the half-mile drag toward the I-470 entrance ramp, finally plowing over a cement median and onto its sacred pavement. He pressed the accelerator into the floor - 50, 60, 70, 80 miles per hour, and the entire cabin shook beneath him. The Mustang was gaining on him, the Hispanic with his arm and glock out the window, hell bent on revenge. The sun peaked over the horizon, just enough to blind him and impede his view. He came up all too soon on a gold sedan, swerving just in time to avoid it, the Mustang mimicking his every move.

_Fuck,_ he thought, _fuck fuck fuck!_

The Kansas City skyline was in view, its few office buildings and high rises providing just the shelter he needed to avoid them, so long as he could get there first. His eyes darted quickly to the large green sign above him: Downtown exit, 1 mile.

The Mustang was next to him, the Hispanic's glock out the window, taking aim at the Driver's head. The Driver swerved into the Mustang, and the two pieces of metal crashed together, the Mustang falling slightly behind as it regained its composure. Downtown exit, 1/2 mile.

The Mustang fell behind him, repeatedly crashing into the left side bumper, and the Cutlass's wheels skid, turning the car backwards. Driver threw it in reverse, pressing the accelerator into the floor yet again - 50, 60, 70, 80, 90 miles per hour. The sedans and mini-vans of the Midwest whizzed past, some hoking their horns, most too terrified to respond at all. He checked his rear-view mirror - he could see the exit now, and he threw his wheel to reach the correct lane. He was front bumper to front bumper with the Mustang, and it followed him down the exit ramp, both the Italian and the Hispanic desperately trying to keep up. Driver slammed on the breaks and turned the wheel, spinning the Cutlass forwards again, and throwing it in drive and speeding down the street.

A convertible came to a screeching halt, waiting for the Cutlass to pass, but it was too late for the Mustang - it plowed into the Convertible at 50 miles per hour, and the hood of the car crumbled like a soda can, and it spun the wrong way, finally stopping just beyond the exit ramp. Before Driver turned the corner and left them, he saw the Italian's door open, who stumbled out, falling to the ground. The Convertible driver was unconscious, her head lolling unnaturally to one side, blood trickling from her mouth.

Driver got lost in the city, turning this way and that, making sure that no one would find him - for now. His hands shook, and he expelled a deep breath, his fingers almost numb from adrenaline. He slowed to the speed limit now, less than the speed limit, maybe 20 miles per hour. There was a high pitched noise, the wail of a siren, and for an instant, his eyes darted to his rear view mirror - for an instant of weakness, he took his eyes off of the road.

And, for that instant of weakness, of inattentiveness, he was punished.

He saw her before the car struck her, was able to make out her slender frame for just a moment before twisted metal got the best of her. He hit the breaks hastily, but it was too late - she hit his windshield, then rolled to the pavement where he could no longer see her.

He sat there for a moment, panting, his disbelieving eyes watching the businessmen, who were just arriving at work for the day, pointing at the Cutlass and calling 911. The sirens were closing in on him, and she was not getting up.

_ Come on, dammit, _he willed, _get up._

But his salvation never came, the defenseless flesh refused to move. Through his open window, he heard her groan.

He threw the door open and came to the front of the car to look at her. She laid on the ground motionless, her head gashed open and her dark eyes wide, staring up at him sadly, almost angrily. Her legs were contorted oddly, her ankle broken at a sideways angle.

She extended an arm up towards him, her fingers covered in her own blood. She said, almost asked him, "Help me."

He took a long look at her again. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled into what had been a tight bun. He studied her legs again, and realized she was clad in a leotard and tights, the bag she was clutching spilling ballet shoes into the street.

"Help me," she said to him again, a tear spilling down her cheek. "Please."

The businessmen had started to meander over, asking if he needed help, if they should call an ambulance. The sirens were almost on top of him now, closing in on him like a pack of wolves.

He looked down at the Dancer again. In a move of impulsiveness, he scooped her up gently, and she made a yelping noise. He opened the back door of his Cutlass, and she began to squirm. "Wait," she said quietly, "what are you doing?" He slid her gently inside, and she cried out, trying to open the door on the opposite side. "No," she said, a little louder this time, "somebody call the police," she said, even louder, "somebody help me...somebody...somebody..." She passed out, her head falling to one side, and he shut the door, jumped in the driver's seat, and sped off.


	2. Chapter 2

When he checked into that seedy motel just outside of St. Louis, he didn't think she'd ever wake up. On the way that afternoon, she had stirred, had even opened her eyes once or twice to look around, and tried to speak to him. They'd make eye contact in the rear view mirror for an instant before her head would roll back again, and she would sleep.

He opened the door to the motel room and peered inside. The dampened floors writhing with cockroaches, the curtains and chairs yellowed and reeking of cigarette smoke, the bed spread stained with blood and semen - this was a scene he knew all too well. He turned back to the parking lot, stared into the back seat of the Cutlass. Her eyes were still closed, her head still tilted back and rested against the window. When he made his way to the door, he paused for a moment and stared at her through the streaky glass, like a child might study an animal in the zoo. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Her face was round and her nose upturned, her lips thin and unexpectant. The gash on her forehead had stopped bleeding, and the dried blood had made a trail from her hair line to the bottom of her ear lobe. Her tights had been torn beyond recognition, and her right ankle hung sideways at a grotesque angle.

He reached for the door handle, then paused, thinking better of it. Slowly, he raised his leather-clad knuckles to the window and rapped gently three times. Her eyes fluttered open immediately, and she was alert, judgmental, staring up at him coldly. He pursed his lips and sighed, pointing at the door handle. She didn't move, didn't blink. She only stared.

"Oh Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his eyes and through his hair, "I'm opening the door," he said loudly, as if she were deaf, pointing again at the handle, "I don't want you to fall out and hurt yourself."

She looked at him in disbelief, her eyes wide and angry. "Hurt myself?" She asked, her voice muffled behind the glass, "How chivalrous of you!"

He put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, well..." he began, not knowing quite how to answer her, "...sorry."

She paused and stared at him for a moment, then flipped him off.

His short temper got the best of him. He gripped the handle and flung the door open quickly, but stopped her before she could tumble to the mangled cement below. Her head turned toward the motel, and she digested it, her mind racing through a hundred scenarios - women being kidnapped, women being raped, women being murdered.

"What the fuck?" She asked quietly, staring up at him. "The fuck is this?"

As he picked her up into a cradle carry, she began to kick and thrash at him, yelling at the empty parking lot and the deserted field beyond it.

"HELP!" She screamed, "SOMEONE CALL THE POLICE!"

He placed a hand over her mouth and she bit into it, her teeth making a squeaking noise against the leather gloves. He screamed out and ran quickly into the motel room, kicking the door and letting it slam behind him. He tossed her onto the bed, and she yelped as she bounced once, clutching her side and reaching for her ankle. He leapt to the mattress and straddled her, careful not to touch her ribs. She slapped him hastily, her nail tracing a small blood line across his cheek, then tilted her head back and began yelling at the wall, screaming at the empty room beyond it. He dropped his knees on her arms, pinning them to the bed, and yanked off a glove and tucked it in her open mouth, tucking it so far back she gagged.

"Listen to me now," he said with quiet intensity, his voice sharp and pingy. "I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to kill you. But right now, I need you to be quiet, and just because I don't want to do something doesn't mean I won't do it."

There was a pause as the two of them stared at each other, panting.

"Now," he said, a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek and onto hers, "if you give me a few hours of peace, I can help you." He forced a slight smile, trying to make her feel comfortable, "I can set your ankle. I can stitch up that gash, good as new. But I can't do any of those things if you don't stop screaming. Will you stop screaming?"

A tear rolled down her cheek and she searched the ceiling, searching so long that he almost searched up there himself. Finally, her eyes met his, and she nodded slowly. He nodded back, then slowly took the glove from her mouth and removed his knees from her arms, reclining back in a keeling position on the bed.

She didn't say anything for a long time, so long that the glisten of tears in her eyes had subsided. She sniffled a bit, again staring at the ceiling listlessly. In a way, she made him uncomfortable, her stillness, the way she said everything and nothing. He watched her chest heave up and down slowly, deeply, as if she were relaxed, sleeping even. After a while he couldn't look at her anymore, instead stared at himself in the vanity mirror across from the bed. He looked old, tired, dirty.

After what seemed like hours, she said calmly, "Could you help me sit up?"

Her cool voice snapped him from his trance, from the spell she had put him under. "Yeah, of course," he said quickly, rising to the side of the bed and placing her arm around his neck, helping her to rise. She winced and expelled a breath, gritting her teeth and smiling in pain. He grabbed a pillow from the other side of the bed and placed it behind her back. "Thanks," she said, staring at him warily.

"Sure," he answered, and sat on a cracked pleather chair on the other side of the room. He liked this better, he thought. This way he could survey her from a distance, keep her at arm's length. He stared down at the carpet, avoiding her gaze.

"Are you going to rape me?" She asked quietly.

"No."

"Did you already rape me?"

"Does it feel like I did?"

She adjusted, visibly perturbed by him. "No," she said, "so then it's worse than I thought."

His head snapped towards her. "What does that mean?"

"Well," she began, "if you're really going to 'fix me up' like you say, you must have some sort of conscience, but if you weren't willing to wait for an ambulance and talk to the police, well," she blinked and swallowed, "then you must be in some kind of trouble."

He looked at her long and hard, his eyes stern. "You're a smart girl."

She stared down at her hands, which were scraped and bruised from the accident, then put a hand to the gash in her forehead, running her fingers over it. She winced from the pain, but did not pull her hand back.

He studied her, then cleared his throat. "What's your name?"

She looked back at him, and opened her mouth as if to speak, but paused and shook her head. "No. You first."

He stared out the half-drawn shades at the Cutlass in the parking lot. "That's of minor importance to you."

"No, it is of major fucking 's your name?" Her voice cut like a knife.

His eyes narrowed and he went to the window. "For a ballerina, you've sure got a nasty mouth on you."

"You don't spend a lot of time around ballerinas," she said.

He sighed. "How about this: I don't have to know your name, and you don't need to know mine," he said, peering around the parking lot for anything suspicious, "sound good?"

She laughed, but it was strained, uninviting. She was exhausted, and her patience was clearly wearing thin. "What do you do for a living?" She asked suddenly.

He stared at her, a thousand answers coming to him at once. "I drive," he said suddenly.

"You drive?" She asked sarcastically. "Ok. That's fine. Your name is Driver. We'll just call you 'D'." She laughed her awful laugh again. "I'm a Ballerina, so why don't we just go ahead and call me 'B'."

He turned to face her and sat on the far edge of the bed, his hands between his knees. "Ok, B. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is all mine."

She stretched out a hand to shake his, leaning forward to reach him. As she leaned, her ankle curled sideways, and she screamed out, "MOTHERFUCKER!" She fell back down to the bed spread, tears running down her face, a guttural yell escaping her lips. Then, as quickly as it had begun, she bit her hand, stifling her scream. She peered up at him, her eyes brimming with tears. "Sorry," she said, growling with pain, "I didn't meant to scream again."

He jumped from the bed and grabbed his keys. "No, it's fine...uh...I should have gone to the pharmacy a long time ago. I'll be back." He opened the door, then stopped. "Just don't go anywhere. What I said before, it still stands."

She stared at him blankly for a moment. "Where the fuck would I go, D?"

He shook his head. "Nowhere, I guess. Fifteen minutes."

He slammed the door, locking it behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

The Driver pulled into the CVS parking lot, the engine of the Cutlass uttering one last roar as he turned the keys in the ignition to an "off" position. It had already been fifteen minutes since he had left the motel. He'd never been late in his life, except for this moment, and considering the circumstances, it could cost him dearly. What was she doing right at this moment? Crawling towards her bag, reaching for her cell phone and calling the police, no doubt. Was there a phone in the room next to the bed? _Shit, _he thought, _what if she didn't have to crawl, and the police have been there for ten minutes?_ _I should have smashed the phone. Why didn't I smash the phone?_

He reached for the keys, almost turned them in the ignition, then stopped. _And what if you hit her with the car and she's in terrible pain? _He sighed and shook his head, then got out of the car.

He crossed the parking lot into the pharmacy, the automatic doors opening just a hair too late for his taste. The fluorescent lights flickered, hi-lighting the grime and dirt on the tile floors below. It wasn't crowded - a young African-American teen worked the register, and every so often it would beep as he rang up the few customers in line. Nobody was looking at him - it was safe, as safe as it could be for someone like him. Even so, he was on edge, ready for anything - his muscles were tense, his brow broken out in a fever. His hands gripped to fists, then relaxed, gripped, then relaxed.

He made his way to the back of the store, to the aisle that housed the pain killers and braces, stopped in the middle and scanned the shelves. He bent over and grabbed an extra-large bottle of Ibuprofen, and an extra-small ankle brace, just to make sure it was tight enough. _What if it doesn't fit? _His hands shook, half in anger and half in worry at his thoughts. _Well, then I'll have to come back, won't I? What are you, some kind of -_

A sneaker squeaked behind him, close, dangerously close to his back. His ears perked up, his back arched, like a cat ready to pounce. He could feel a hand inching towards his shoulder, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Slowly, he put the pills and bandage in his pockets, then whirled around and gripped the wrist of the would-be assailant, twisting it quickly and throwing him into the shelves behind him, which vomited Tylenol and Advil onto the ground. He began to advance on the man, his fist raised menacingly, but stopped - the African American cashier was staring up at him with wide eyes, gripping his arm in pain. He held up his arms, guarding his face frantically, and said, "Woah man, Jesus Christ!"

The Driver lowered his fist slowly, panting, his vision growing blurry, half from embarrassment, half from anger. An older, pudgy white man with a CVS polo came loping around the corner, and crouched down beside the cashier. "What happened?" He asked quietly, almost frightened, "What the hell happened?" Driver peered around the store, staring at the faces of curious and horrified customers as they pointed at him at stared. As his hearing tunneled in and out, he heard the cashier say something like, "...just trying to see if he needed help..."

He stumbled backwards a bit, his forehead breaking out in a sweat. "I..." he stammered, "I'm sorry..." He gripped the products in his pockets, and ran out of the store.

When he pulled into the parking lot of the motel, he'd been gone for two hours. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring at the room in front of him. The lights were on inside, the door pushed open slightly. He felt hollow, like he always did when he knew something was wrong, something was amiss. The motel was still deserted - there was no one around, no sign that anyone had been here or was looking for him. _But then again, they could just be hiding, _he thought, _waiting for you to go inside so they can blow your brains out._ He nodded, his face wet with perspiration, his hands shaking. So this was it. This was how he would finally go. He reached into the backseat and grabbed the CVS bag, plus a bag of McDonald's he had purchased for her. _Seems sort of arbitrary now. _

As if in slow-motion, he got out of the car and made his way toward the door, half hoping it would end before he saw her, before she could see him gunned down, or worse, arrested. Why did he hope that?

He reached a flat hand toward the door, and pushed it open, his eyes shut, waiting for anything...

But anything never came. He opened his eyes and stared at the lonely, dark and cold room. She was sitting on the bed, her eyes half-lidded, staring at him. It was exactly as he had left it.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back half-heartedly. "You were gone a long time," she said, her arms crossed, her eyes suspicious. "I thought you said fifteen minutes."

He crossed to the bed and set down the McDonald's bag, pushing it to her with an outstretched hand, as if she were a dangerous animal that would rip it off. "I thought you'd be hungry."

She looked at it for a moment, then unrolled the bag and peered inside. She took out a burger, unwrapped it and said, "Thanks."

They said nothing for a long time as she ravenously stuffed the burger in her mouth, bit by bit. He watched her, but she hardly noticed him, oblivious to his careful observations. She had somehow managed to undress herself and sat there in his denim button up, not blinking an eye when a glob ketchup dripped down the front of it. He saw his duffel bag sitting at the corner of the room, the clothes strewn about the floor, her decimated tights and leotard sitting folded beside them. She had taken her hair from the ruined bun, and it stuck out in all different directions, kinky and curly like a strawberry sun. She had wiped the blood from the gash at her hair-line, but the trail of it was still barely visible along her cheek. Her bare legs were splayed in two different directions, her broken ankle propped up on a pillow, purple and swollen to twice the size of her other foot. He reached into his pockets and produced the cardboard box that held the bandage, and opened it - his movements were slow and deliberate, reeking of a child who wanted to show something to an uninterested adult.

His actions did not go unnoticed. For the first time in minutes, she looked up at him from her burger, studying his calloused hands, the way they opened the cardboard latch, the way they took out the cellophane package inside. She tensed as he pulled the brace's ends apart, the crackling velcro sound deafening in the otherwise silent room. He placed his hand above her ankle, hovering just above the hot flesh. He stared down at his subject, almost sweating - it was crooked, black and blue, and absolutely enormous, the kind of break that wasn't clean, wouldn't heal correctly. In all honesty, she probably needed surgery. A pang of guilt surged through him, hot and dull like a knife. He turned away from her and stared at the corner of the room, eager to hide his moment of weakness.

He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. "I'm sorry that uh...that I..." He paused and turned to her again. She was staring at him expectantly, almost sadly, then switched her gaze to her disastrous injury. There wouldn't be any dancing. Not anymore.

She nodded. "It's fine."

He nodded back at her, or didn't, avoiding her gaze as best as he could. He placed his hand halfway up her calf and gently lifted - she let out a yelp and a curse, but steadied her leg for him - and he slipped her foot into the brace, its rigid plastic stark and harsh against her purple and blue skin. He carefully criss-crossed the velcro to secure the brace, and gently set her foot back down. She let out a sigh of relief a mile long and swallowed. For a second, he thought she would cry, but thankfully, the tears never came. Instead, she picked up her burger again, and popped what was left of it in her mouth.

Another long and exasperating pause followed. He listened to her chew, watched her eyes dart from her ankle to the door, back to him, then to her ankle again.

She sighed again. "I think some ice would help," she said finally, "if you're willing to get it."

An hour later and they were again sitting in silence. He held a Ziploc bag filled with ice on her ankle, occasionally refilling it when it had melted. At the fifteen minute mark, when the silence had become too stifling for either of them, he had turned on the TV, to the local news, and they sat there, watching it. Only, neither of them were really watching it - they were watching each other, waiting patiently for the other to make a move, a move that never came.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Do you like dancing?"

"Do you like breathing?"

Silence. Neither moved.

She softened a bit. "I guess dancing to me is like driving to you," she said, and he turned to her and met her gaze. "I mean, I guess. I don't really know you, so..." Her words trailed off and she stared back at the television.

Another pause.

"Although, I don't know how much dancing I'll be doing anymore," she said, not unkindly, not to dig at him. Then, more quietly, to herself, "I guess I'll just limp around like my Dad from now on."

"Your Dad?"

The question caught her off guard, partially because she wasn't prepared to give an answer, partially because he was interested. "Um...yeah, knee injury. College football."

He nodded and swallowed hard. A short burst of panic spread through him like a disease. This girl had family, people who would be missing her, people who would come looking for her.

The panic was catching. She sensed his fear, saw him go rigid, which only worsened his feeling. He began to hyper-ventilate, and he took off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He stared down at the palms of his hands, sweaty and shaking from lack of sleep and too much adrenaline. A bead of sweat ran down his nose and to the floor.

Her gaze snapped from the television and to his body, and she studied him for a moment, unsure of what to do. She reached out a hand to touch him, then recoiled, thinking better of it. She thought he would explode there, would finally break and kill her.

Against her better judgement, she slowly, very slowly, extended her hand once more, letting it fall gently against his back. For a split second, she felt stupid, that her gesture was arbitrary, that she couldn't possibly help him.

But she could. The Driver's breath expanded against her hand, his cotton shirt letting in the warmth of it. In that moment, he didn't feel alone - for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had a friend. He took another deep breath and the shaking subsided. He looked at her, really looked at her, and she at him.

"Do you wanna tell me what you're running away from, D?"

He told her. It felt good.


	4. Chapter 4

He didn't have to say anything for her to know that he was there. It was 7am, and he stood over her, his arm outstretched to rouse her, but her eyes had already flickered open. They stared at each other for a second, and he put his hand in his pocket. She sighed sleepily and stretched her arms above her head, folding one under her head like a pillow. "Why are you wet?" She asked, almost accusingly.

"I took a shower."

She nodded. "Oh, yeah. I guess that's reasonable."

She sat up slowly, wincing at the ankle that still rested on a pillow at the end of the bed. "What time is it?" She asked, yawning.

"We need to leave." His voice was steady, yet hurried and sharp. His duffel bag was slung over his left shoulder, packed and bulging with his clothes as well as her dance bag.

She wiped the sleep from her eyes and shook her head, slowly waking herself up. "Uh, ok," she said, sliding her feet from the bed to the floor, and reaching up for his duffel bag, "just let me get dressed and -"

He grabbed her wrist tightly, the force of it knocking her off balance slightly. "No," he said, his eyes boring into her soul, "now. We have to leave right now."

"What the fuck? Why?" She tried to pull her wrist away, and they struggled for a moment before he grabbed her other arm and stared her down darkly, ferociously.

"There are men in the parking lot."

"So?"

"With guns. I have seen them before. They work for Bernie."

There was silence between them as they stared at each other indignantly, their faces almost touching. There was a flicker of fear behind her eyes, but it was fleeting. As soon as it had gone, it was replaced with anger.

"I. Don't. Have. Any. Pants. On."

He stared at her a moment before sighing and throwing her hands down. He dropped the duffel bag on the bed and unzipped it, almost tearing it from the fabric. His hands shook as he tore through the bag, half from anger, half from a sudden rush of adrenaline. He found them balled up at the bottom of the bag, black and shapeless, and began to hand them to her. Thinking better of it, his hand recoiled, and he pushed her backwards to the bed, catching her legs as they fanned into the air. Quickly, but gently, he pulled the stretchy black pants over her legs, then stood her up as he pulled them over her butt. He picked her up in a cradle carry and practically ran to the door, opening it so quickly he almost ripped it from its hinges.

When the door opened, he realized the mistake he had made in his haste. In the parking lot, the newly fixed Mustang was waiting, the two men from the diner in the front seat. Next to it was a brand new Camaro, its grill grinning at him menacingly, its windows tinted black. They were both in danger, but he couldn't stop now. He set her down for a moment and opened the passenger side door, ushering her inside as fast as he could. He waited for the sound of car doors to open, for curses to be screamed, for bullets to fly. He raced around the front of the Cutlass and got in the driver's seat, waiting for a brass knuckle to catch him across the eye, for something, anything to happen.

But it never did. Neither man in the Mustang moved, the Camaro practically lifeless beside it. The Driver rested his hand on the keys in the ignition, waiting to turn them, then paused. He looked at the two death mobiles through his rear view mirror. They were motionless, staring, waiting.

"What are you doing?" Asked B from the passenger seat. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"

He sat for a moment, listening to their synchronized panting, watching them intently. "They're just sitting there," he said to no one in particular.

"So," she said, her voice shrill and panicked, "what the hell are we waiting for?"

Her words suddenly snapped him from his trance, and he turned the keys. "I don't know." He peeled out of the parking space and raced out of the lot, pulling hastily in front of a mini-van, which screeched to a stop and honked its horn.

He sped down the street at 60 miles per hour, the traffic and prairie whizzing by him angrily. He pulled onto the Northbound entrance ramp, increasing his speed to 90. B gripped the armrest and the ceiling, her eyes shut tightly in a squint. He checked his rear view mirror. No one was following him. He let his foot off the accelerator a bit, decreasing his speed to 80, and checked his mirror again. Only the quiet calm of Mid-Western traffic was behind him, slow and dull, laughing at him.

He almost laughed himself. "Why aren't they following us?" he asked no one in particular.

She opened her eyes and whipped her head around, looking for a sign of either car, but there was none. "Are you...are you sure you had the right guys?"

The blood rushed to his head in a flash of anger and his leather gloves squeaked as he gripped the steering wheel harder than he ever had in his life. He didn't want to look at her, didn't want to answer her stupid question.

"Yes," he said through gritted teeth, "they were in Nino's restaurant after Shannon was killed. I'd remember them anywhere."

She looked over at him for a second, her mouth open as if she were going to speak, but she said nothing.

He sped on down the highway.

After about 20 miles of complete silence and a cruise control on 80, the Driver finally slowed to the speed limit of 60, his shoulders raised rigidly, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He looked over at B, saw her staring out the window longingly, and felt the guilt well up inside of him again. He didn't know what to say to her now - quite frankly, he never really knew what to say to her. She seemed alien to him. He had expected her to be scared, to cry, to hate him, to run away, but she never did. She just kept staring at him stoically and breathing slowly, in and out, watching, waiting, listening.

The plains of Missouri rolled alongside the Cutlass, boring and indistinct. He didn't know where they were going, didn't have any sort of plan. She knew that, and he hated it - her silence spoke volumes, and in that moment, he knew that she thought him weak. He waited for her to speak, his grip tightening on the wheel, listening for her to utter a single word.

Finally, she said, "I didn't know Shannon died."

He looked over at her, surprised that after all they had just been through, that was what she had garnered from the situation. He stared so long that he almost forgot to look back at the road, and he had to swerve around a quickly approaching car. The sudden movement didn't illicit a response from her. She didn't even flinch.

He looked over again, just to catch another glimpse of what he thought he had seen, stealing a quick glance every so often in the stifling silence of the highway.

One single tear was streaming down her cheek.

"I'm sorry about your friend," she said quietly.


	5. Chapter 5

B sat on the hood of the Cutlass, pushing around the contents of a Chinese food carton with a pair of chopsticks. Every so often she would take a very small bite, then go back to her digging. She hadn't said much since they'd left the cavalry in the dust in St Louis, close to ten hours ago. It was dusk, the sun almost hidden behind the trees of the St Paul woods they had decided to rest in. She had asked for a motel, but he'd refused: "This will be safer."

He leaned on the grill next to her, his hands in his pockets, his eyes staring blankly into nowhere. His carton sat next to him on the hood, completely full save a few bites from the top. He was still perplexed by the happenings of the day. Why hadn't they followed him? What were they waiting for? Even more troubling, perhaps, was the fact that they had seen her. They knew she was with him, and injured no less. In the span of a few seconds, she'd gone from travel companion to liability - a liability not only to him, but to herself as well.

She broke the silence, her voice accompanied by the squeak of mediocre Chinese food sliding around on cardboard. "You should eat," she said quietly.

He didn't look at her as he said, "So should you."

She swallowed, taking a small piece of Orange Chicken into her mouth for show. "C'mon, D," she said as if she'd taken a large bite, "all this time, I haven't seen you eat a damn thing. At least I had a burger last night."

He sighed, and picked up his carton and took a bite, still staring at the trees. A few minutes of silence passed, the chirp of crickets the only sound between them. Suddenly overcome with frustration and anger, he threw down his carton, spilling food all over the ground below.

"Hey!" exclaimed B, "What the fuck!"

He stood up from the car and paced in front of it, running his shaking hands through his hair nervously. "This is a mess. This is a goddamn mess." He unzipped his jacket and threw it on the hood, continuing to pace. "Why the fuck didn't they follow me?" He rounded on her, genuinely asking her the question.

She stammered for a moment. "I...I mean, I don't -"

"Something's not right," he said, his mind ticking, "something had to..." his voice trailed off as his vision zeroed in on the hood of the Cutlass, the spot where she was sitting. He practically ran to her and said, "Get up."

She stared at him for a moment, unmoving. "B," he said softly, but urgently, "get off the car, now."

She again did nothing but stare. "I can't," she said, gesturing to her ankle.

He sighed quickly and picked her up, setting her not so gently upon the ground, and opened up the hood. He stared down at the parts inside, and extended his hands slowly, shaking with fear. He bent over so his eyes were level with then engine, checking underneath, scanning both sides slowly and thoroughly.

"What are you doing?" asked B.

He exhaled a puff of air as he continued his search for parts that shouldn't be there, for wires, for the ticking red numbers. "There's a bomb in the car," he said, a bead of sweat dripping on the engine, "there has to be. Why else would they let us leave like that?" Finding nothing, he ran to the side of the car and laid down on his back, squirming his way under the car like a worm ducking from a bird. After a few moments, he squirmed his way out the other side, then scrambled to his feet, reaching into his pocket and frantically grabbing his keys. He ran to the trunk of the car and unlocked it quickly, throwing the hatch as though he might break it off.

It revealed its contents - some ill-advised shag carpeting which lined the trunk, and his very own duffel bag. He swallowed hard and rubbed his eyes, expecting that when they opened again, the bomb would be sitting there, waiting for him. But it wasn't.

He closed the trunk slowly and looked at B, who was staring at him sadly, with pity in her eyes. "There's no bomb, D," she said quietly.

He stumbled backwards for a second and took the Cutlass in again. He exhaled a deep breath, one that was ragged and burned his lungs. He ran to the passenger side door and ripped it open, then opened the glove box. He rummaged through the papers there, countless parking tickets and hundreds of fake insurance cards, titles, and registration papers. They fell to the ground like pathetic confetti at a party no one came to. "No," he said to the air, "I'll find it." His voice was determined, but plagued with worry. The sudden adrenaline rush had made his fingers numb, his hands tingly. He knew she was watching him, judging him, and worst of all, pitying him.

He opened the door to the back seat and opened the seat back pockets, looked under the front seats, even in the ash trays. B cleared her throat. "We have been in this car for 11 hours. There is no way - "

"B, SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!" His voice cut through the darkness, which had all of a sudden closed in on them. For a moment, it seemed that even the crickets went silent. Nothing moved. Nothing even breathed. He stared her down, the anger boiling inside of him, white-hot. B gasped a little, her mouth falling open in shock. She looked hurt, scared even, as she nodded slowly, and looked away from him.

His search only lasted a few more moments before he realized how arbitrary it was. He slammed the door and stared at the Cutlass, a wave of embarrassment rushing through him. He looked over at B, who was again picking at her food, trying with all her might not to see him, not to see that he was looking at her. His guilt stabbed at him again, sharp like a knife. He swallowed and made his way over to her slowly, afraid that she would somehow run away from him. He felt tired, and panted from his exertions. He squatted down and sat beside her, letting out a long sigh. "I'm sorry," he said feebly. He stared at her like a school boy that had admired someone from afar, and had finally gotten to see her up close.

She nodded, and handed him the carton. "You need this more than me," she said.

He took the carton from her, and in that moment, was more grateful for her than anything he'd ever had in his life. Anyone else would have been scared, would have cried when they saw him for the beast he really was. But not her. Never B.

The crickets began to chirp again. In the distance, an owl sounded its call over its domain. B smiled, chuckling a bit. "Who cooks for you?" she said, mimicking the bird's pitch variation.

She looked at him, and for the first time since they'd been together, she smiled widely. "It's a Barred Owl," she said, meeting his gaze, "they always say that."

Later, they laid in the reclined seats of the Cutlass, staring up at the stars through the sun roof. She had wrapped herself in his scorpion jacket, unphased by how filthy it was, how stained it was with the blood of evil men. He stretched his arms upwards and folded them beneath his head.

"I don't really like Chinese food," he said.

"Me either."

He swallowed and said, "When I was a kid, it made me sick once. I haven't been able to eat it since."

She looked over at him and smiled widely. "That's the most personal thing you've ever said to me."

He smiled back and they laughed, and never had a laugh felt so good. The silence fell between them again as they listened to the world outside, the crickets chirping, the owl speaking once more.

B shifted. "You know, considering the circumstances," she said nervously, "this is actually...kind of...fun."

The Driver said nothing, but the smile was still spread across his face, as if it were permanently stuck there for the rest of his life.

She stared at him again, then rolled over and shut her eyes. He kept staring at the stars, and took his hands from behind his head to rest them on the gear shift, where they had always been most comfortable. What seemed like hours passed, and he looked over at her, saw her wearing the darkness like a shroud, saw her breathing silently, slowly. He knew she was awake, knew she was observing him even now.

He cleared his throat. "B?"

Nothing moved but her eye lashes, which flickered open quickly. He knew she was listening.

"Why did you cry when I told you Shannon had died?"

She sighed, and didn't say anything for a long time. After a while, he thought she had fallen asleep, her mind weary from contemplation. Finally, she said,"Because I like you." She reached her hand behind her and laid it on his, and he wrapped his fingers around hers.

They slept.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun was harsh and grating when it shone through the sun roof the next morning, frying his face like an egg in a pan. He opened his eyes and squinted against the intrusion, holding a hand overhead to guard them. He opened the arm rest and took out the watch that resided there, a watch normally only used to time the span of five minutes. He stared down at it - it was noon. They'd slept for almost thirteen hours.

He looked over at B, who had covered her face with his jacket to avoid the sunlight. He smiled. "B?" he asked softly.

She stirred, her face still obscured by gray satin. A delicate hand took the jacket, and slid it down so she could look at him. She scrunched her face up at the sun, but smiled at him and stretched her arms up lazily. "Hey D," she said groggily, wiping the sleep from her eyes, "what time is it?" As if her words had snapped her into reality, she sat up and looked around frantically. "Christ, it's late, isn't it? We shouldn't be here this long, should we?" She looked back at him, but he hadn't moved or sat up at all.

"Do you feel rested?" he asked.

She looked at him for a moment, puzzled. "Well, yeah, but that doesn't -"

"Then what does it matter?"

She relaxed and nodded slowly, a slight smile making its way across her lips. She laid back down and rolled over to look at him, and he at her. They stared at each other for a while, neither of them moving or speaking. A shadow of doubt crossed her face, as if reality had suddenly come crashing down on her.

She cleared her throat. "What's your plan?" she asked, breaking eye contact with him and playing with the threads in the seat nervously. "I mean...we can't run forever."

The smile faded slowly from his lips as he stared at the threads she'd been picking at. He turned over and pulled the lever at the base of the seat and sat up, staring at the woods. He suddenly felt very stupid, and as if the very air was being squeezed from his lungs. What had he expected, that the two of them would run away together? That she'd somehow embrace his lifestyle and put herself in danger, for the sake of what? Him?

In his heart of hearts, he'd thought maybe she would. But that was ridiculous.

She'd maneuvered her seat upright as well, and was staring at the woods, perhaps searching for what he was looking at.

He swallowed hard and took his jacket from her lap, then reached inside the pocket and pulled out his keys. "Tonight," he said, putting them in the ignition, "we'll drive to the border. Before we get there, I'll drop you off somewhere safe, and I want you to call the police." Her breathing increased as his words sank in slowly, painfully. "Then I'll leave." He turned the keys and put on his seat belt. He sat staring at his lap, convincing himself that what he was doing was right.

She blinked hard, and nodded very slowly, too crestfallen to say anything.

He stared into the woods, trying to avoid her gaze at all costs. The sun felt even hotter than it had, made him sweat through his shirt. He turned towards her. "If anyone comes after you, the police, or Bernie's guys or anyone, tell them where I went. Don't try to protect me, do you hear me?"

She stared at him, her eyes large and sad. "No. I can't in good con -"

"B," he said sternly, meeting her gaze, their noses almost touching, "I have never been more serious than I am now." A fire rose in his chest, and he swallowed to keep it at bay. "Forget me."

Her eyes narrowed at him. They were angry, yet hurt, ablaze with indignation and awash with sadness all at the same time. "Fine," she said, "consider yourself forgotten."

He swallowed again, this time with less ease than before. Her words cut him deeply, yet he said nothing, his face a picture of stoicism as it always had been. He took the car out of park and continued to the road.

It had only taken about five hours to reach the border, and for the both of them, it had flown by. Neither had spoken, although they wanted to, words failing them and silence taking over. B spent most of her time staring out the window, and every so often would look over at him, desperately trying to illicit a single word. He wanted to reply, yet he never did. He had never known what to say to her, especially not now.

When the highway signs read US/CANADIAN BORDER, 5 MILES, he pulled into a gas station that was practically empty. He parked out front, and they both sat staring inside, her hands folded meekly in her lap. He looked at her, and she at him, and he opened his mouth to say something, something meaningful, but it never came. Instead, he said, "I'll get your things," and opened the car door to make his way to the trunk. When he got there, he paused, staring down at it, a feeling of anger and sadness rippling through his body. He balled up a fist and slammed it into the hatch door, then pulled it back, witnessing the small dent he had put in it. He paused for a minute, his hands on the trunk, bent over to catch his breath. He stared into the cab, and saw her, turned around in her seat, her face wet with tears.

He opened the trunk quickly to avoid her gaze, afraid of what he might do if he stared at her for too long. He opened his duffel bag and rummaged through it, picking out her dance bag and stuffing it with her things. As he did so, he caught a whiff of her - of lavender and clean cotton, a sweet smell that overpowered the rusty smell of fresh blood and oil. He quickly shut the trunk, wanting desperately to waft the smell from his nose.

When he opened the passenger side door, she had wiped her face clean of tears, and replaced it with a look of hurt indignation. She swung her feet out of the door and stretched her arms up, waiting for him to help her from the cab. He bent down and put his arms around her waist and gently lifted her from her seat to a standing position. They paused. To anyone else, they might look like lovers in an embrace - her with her arms locked about his neck, their faces so close their lips could touch, their eyes locked intensely, almost lovingly.

He wanted more than anything to kiss her, to take back everything he'd said and put her back in the car, to take her somewhere safe and make love to her.

She broke eye contact and stared at the ground, loosing her grip from around his neck to break the moment. "Are you gonna be alright?" she asked, almost whispering.

His shoulders sank and he blinked hard, trying to clear the thoughts from his mind, trying to forget his more primal instincts. He pursed his lips and nodded, then looked towards the gas station with hungry eyes. They turned sideways, and she put her arm around his neck, hopping on her good foot towards the door.

He opened the door with his free hand, and it felt heavy, burdensome, like nothing he'd ever felt before. They hobbled together towards the counter, to the Native American clerk who was reading a magazine disinterestedly. The Driver's grip tightened around her waist for a moment, and they stared at each other sadly, the smell of burnt coffee and the harsh glow of fluorescent bulbs hardly an afterthought to them. She squeezed his hand, gently stroking it with her thumb.

"Can I help you?" said the clerk, with all the annoyance of a man who had been working too long at a gas station. He hadn't even looked up from his magazine.

She turned her head towards him. "Can I use your phone?"

The Driver steadied her on the counter, lingered as he slid his hands down her arm to her hand, and walked out the door.

He paused for a moment as he stepped outside, the cool air suddenly seeming unreasonably cold. He reached in his pocket and gripped his keys, fingering the teeth of them. He stared at the Cutlass, stared down at the grill - it was bent out of shape from when he'd hit her, just another way she'd left an impression on him. He turned around again to get one last good look at her - she was on the phone, but she wasn't speaking. She was just staring at him. She put her hand up to wave at him, her fingers curled over slightly, half-heartedly.

As he took his hand out of his pocket and raised his arm, a shooting pain went through his chest, and the glass of the gas station door shattered in a million pieces before him. He looked down slowly at his jacket, saw blood oozing from a bullet hole exit wound under his collar bone. The sticky red liquid grew, forming a large patch on the satin.

He spun around quickly, taking the keys from his pocket, and another bullet hit the passenger side mirror, knocking it to the ground and destroying it. He'd seen them all too late - the Mustang and the Camaro were sitting at two gas pumps, with bullets flying from both cars. He leapt behind the grill of the Cutlass for cover, a feeling of terror spreading over him, not for himself, but for B. He tried to peek inside the store, but it was impossible to see anything from his angle. "B?" he screamed desperately. No answer.

The gun fire stopped suddenly, and he could hear two men making their way across the parking lot, guns drawn, ready to trap him from both sides of the Cutlass.

He heard a crunch of mirror glass under a booted foot, saw the younger Hispanic man coming towards him in the still-intact gas station door. "Come on out asshole," he said, "and maybe your girlfriend will live."

"Yeah," said the other one, dropping an empty clip to the ground and loading another, "Bernie Rose is not an unreasonable man if you play by the rules."

The Driver let out a long exhale, rested his head on the grill of the Cutlass. Maybe they were lying, but it was B's only hope at walking away clean. He stood up slowly, his arms over his head.

The two henchmen laughed. "That's right, you son-of-a-bitch," said the Hispanic man, whose face had shriveled up, scarred and burned from when the Driver had broken hot coffee on it, "we got you."

There was a moment of silence before another, louder gunshot. The Hispanic henchman was taken off his feet and half way across the parking lot, his chest blown apart by a double-barrel shot gun. Another moment of silence passed as the two remaining men stared in disbelief, and the henchman screamed, "What the fuck?"

As if in slow motion, B limped from the gas station doors, the shotgun cradled in her arms as if it were an extension of them. The henchman raised his gun, but before he could shoot, she had cocked the weapon, aimed it, and fired it at him, his head exploding and sending an arc of gore all around them like macabre fireworks. She cocked it again and aimed it at the Camaro, blowing the front tire apart in one shot in an expert display of marksmanship. She lowered it slightly, then screamed, "Get in the car, D!"

He didn't waste another second staring as he did what he was told. She limped quickly to the passenger door and threw it open, practically leaping into the car. He backed out of the space and spun the car around so quickly, the passenger door slammed shut. B leaned over and pressed a napkin to his bullet wound, applying as much pressure as she could muster as he jerked the wheel this way and that.

As he sped out of the parking lot, he looked in his rear view mirror at the Camaro they had left in the dust. He blinked hard, rubbing a hand over his eyes to confirm what he saw. It surprised him, frightened him even, even more so than B's surgeon-like precision with the shotgun.

Standing at the passenger side door with his hands folded before him, a calm look of reserved anger spread across his face, was Bernie Rose.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time they reached the motel in Bismarck, North Dakota, they'd ditched the car for a stolen Impala, and B had managed to stop the bleeding of the bullet wound with an entire package of napkins, which laid on the floor in a bloody heap. He pulled into the parking lot and peered into the lobby at the clerk behind the counter, opening the door as he did so.

B caught his arm. "Let me," she said staring at his stained jacket, "you attract too much attention." She got out of the car slowly and limped around the front so quickly you might have thought her ankle was healing.

_What a surprise, _he thought, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. _Seems a little strange that all of a sudden she's walking. _He watched her speak with the clerk, watched her take the wad of cash he'd given her from her shirt pocket and hand it to him. _And how familiar she seemed with a shotgun._ She kept chatting with the clerk, turning on that dazzling smile of hers, that smile that told you nothing was wrong. He felt his adrenaline kick in, that old feeling of his stomach in a knot, the wave of nausea. He stared at the passenger seat, at the dent she'd made in the seat. _What if she's not who she says she is?_

His thoughts were broken as she opened the car door and sat down. "106," she said, rubbing her ankle for show and handing him the key.

He continued forward and pulled into a space in front of the room, threw the car in park, and got out without a word. She followed, limping after him hurriedly.

He opened the door of the motel room and went inside, taking off his jacket and throwing it to the ground, then slumping down on the bed. She shut the door behind her and locked it, putting the chain on for added security. She turned around slowly, her arms crossed, her eyes nervous.

She cleared her throat. "We need to clean your wound out, or it will get infected." She shifted nervously, trying desperately to make herself comfortable.

He stared down at the carpet, stained brown with age and something sticky and unpleasant. The bed spread felt damp, the air smelled like cigarettes and latex. The blinds were bent so that a stranger passing by might see in the room, and a cockroach crawled up the wall in the corner, its tiny legs clicking the only sound. As awful as it was, it couldn't steal him from his thoughts.

She started towards him, her hand outstretched to his wound. "If I could just look-"

He grabbed her wrist and jerked her forward so she was at his eye level. She didn't yelp or protest, and on her face was the look not of surprise, but of a child who knew it had done something wrong. She swallowed hard, a flicker of fear moving through her eyes.

His grip tightened on her wrist, a vice that would not loosen, but his voice was calm, his demeanor stoic. "You're pretty good with a shotgun," he said, his grip so tight his arm was shaking.

She didn't react, but stared him dead in the eye. "D, you're hurting me."

"You're gonna tell me who you are, B," he said calmly, "and if you lie to me, I'll hurt you more." He squeezed even harder, and she winced, then swallowed.

"I used to be a cop," she said as calmly as she could muster.

"Used to be?" he asked, studying her hard, "Or are currently?"

"I said used to be," she replied indignantly, her lips pursed tightly. "I quit last year."

Silence fell between them, deafening silence. The roach on the wall clicked along hurriedly, as if it knew the violence that would erupt at any moment.

"Why did you quit?"

"That's hardly any business of yours."

"I asked you a question." He jerked her arm again, and she let out a yelp.

She took a deep breath and let out a sigh, her hot breath rattling in her lungs. "D," she said, clearly losing her patience, "let go."

"Who do you work for?" he asked.

Suddenly, the room got heavy, the air thick and hard to breathe. His words had sucked the life from them both, as if they were two corpses frozen, locked in a death stare for all eternity. The silence that lingered was telling, but telling of what?

"You are so paranoid I can't even begin to keep up," she said finally.

"Tell me who you work for, or I'll break your fucking arm."

"D, let go!"

He made a move to wrench her arm around, but before it was finished, she'd thrown her other elbow into his nose. They both fell backwards, he gripping his nose, she gripping her wrist, both of them equally broken. He stared up at the ceiling, could feel the warm, sticky liquid flowing against his hand. A feeling of anger rose up inside of him, and as he sat up, he could already feel himself losing control, both hands balled up into tight fists...

...but then he saw her, sitting there, her legs curled beneath her in a fetal position, clutching her arm to her chest. In an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, she was sobbing uncontrollably. In that moment, she was more girl than woman, innocent - and more precious to him than she had ever been.

He felt a stab of sadness and guilt, his chest burning from pain. Her gaze shifted to him for a split second, then away as she said, "I'm sorry," over and over again. Still clutching his nose, he stood up, and stretched a hand towards her. She flinched at it, curling herself into an even smaller ball than before. He'd never felt so awful in his entire life, couldn't even bring himself to look her in the eyes. He paused for a minute, staring down at the hand he'd extended - it was bloody, calloused, worn. The hand of a criminal, the hand of a murderer. He felt his eyes well up with tears, and, disgusted with himself, went into the bathroom.

He'd been in there for a long time, listening to her cry, pinching his nose and washing out the bullet hole under his collar bone. It burned like hell. _Good, _he thought, _it's what I deserve. _He looked at himself in the mirror, the dried blood on his face, on his chest, the unshaven face and dark circles under his eyes. He'd never looked worse, never felt worse in his entire life.

Suddenly, she stepped in the doorway shyly, looked at him in the mirror, and he at her. She reached towards him hesitantly, almost asking his reflection for permission. She rested a hand on his back and slid it to his shoulders, her touch warm, her hands shaking. He took her hand and turned around slowly, taking the back of her neck in his palm. Slowly, he pressed his lips to hers, the touch of them electrifying, intoxicating. He picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around him. She was everything he wanted her to be - the smell of her, the feel of her body pressed against his. He gently laid her on the bed, his hand behind her head, his eyes locked with hers, his body shaking with desire.

There, in an unsafe time, in an unsafe motel room, he made love to an unsafe woman.

And he'd never felt safer in his life.


	8. Chapter 8

He watched her arm glide on the air that whipped past the Impala, a brand new support brace guiding it along stiffly. She was beautiful in every way - her freshly washed hair caught the sunlight, her eyes turned a pleasant shade of green in the afternoon glow. She caught him staring and smiled at him warmly, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. Since they'd woken up, a general wave of euphoria had taken them over. After splinting and taping his nose, they'd gone out and had breakfast - a real breakfast - and it hadn't taken them long to decide to make the 3 day trip to Mexico. He'd asked her if they should stop to get her things in Kansas City, but she refused: "I don't want to waste any more time," she'd said, stroking his cheek. They were running away together.

He knew it was brash, of course he knew it was brash. He'd made gambles on women before, but it wasn't like this. He had a good feeling about B. He knew her like he knew himself.

He was, without a doubt, in love with her.

She spread out a map of North America on the bed of the Kansas motel room and pointed to a tiny dot on the Pacific side of Mexico. "Puerto Vallarta," she said, her voice light and airy, "that's where we should go." She sighed and leaned back into him, laying her head on his chest. "My Dad took me there when I was a kid. I fell in love with it." She extended her arms and folded them behind his head.

He kissed the inside of her wrist. "Won't your Dad miss you?"

There was silence for a moment, and she sat up, suddenly rigid. She finally looked at him and laughed, although it was painful. "I don't think so. He's dead."

He nodded, a pang of embarrassment running through him. Why did he have to ask that question? They sat in a long, drawn out silence in which neither of them moved. He kissed her forehead, then said, "I'm gonna take a shower."

He stepped in the bathroom and closed the door, and began to undress. He turned on the water and fumbled with it for a moment, waiting for it to hit the perfect temperature, but knew in this place, it never would. He flipped on the fan, and, thinking ill of the incessant noise, turned it off again.

He was spreading a towel down on the floor when he heard a thudding noise from inside the room, then a yelp. He stopped dead, his breath and pulse quickening. "B?" he asked, now turning off the water. No answer. Another moment, and he heard the unmistakable sound of two gun shots, muffled by a silencer. His body went cold, his fingers numb. He threw the door open and leapt out, buck naked, into the motel room.

B was sitting on the bed, a brown package the size of an engagement ring box in her hand. She stared at the corner of the room, at a full length mirror that had been cracked by some opposing force. Blood streaked it, running down to the bottom and pooling in the frame cracks below. Under the mirror was a man in a suit, laying face down in a pool of his own blood, two bullet holes in the back of his head. B panted and wiped her mouth, a little trickle of blood staining the back of her hand.

He grabbed a towel and quickly wrapped it around his waist, then ran to her and crouched in front of her. He took her face in his hands. "Are you alright?" he asked, checking her face for any wounds he might have missed. "What happened?" He stood up suddenly, a feeling of adrenaline rushing over him again. "We should leave," he said, going to the window and staring outside.

She didn't look at him. "Relax," she said calmly, without emotion, "he was the only one."

He stopped and turned to her, her collected tone sending a shiver up his spine. He stared down at the package in her hand. "What's that?"

She paused, and looked at it numbly. "Enough Arsenic to kill a man weighing approximately 220 pounds. It's funny," she said, turning it over in her hand, "I thought it would be more."

He swallowed. "Did...did he give that to you?"

"Yes."

He backed away from her, as if she would pounce at any second. "For me?" he asked.

She nodded. She looked at the crumbled body on the floor, the blood still spreading to all corners of the room. "He came here to ask me if I couldn't finish the job because I was injured, and gave me the arsenic to poison you with."

All the weight of reality suddenly came crashing down on him in an instant. This is what they'd been waiting for, why they didn't follow him that day in St. Louis - they were waiting for her to kill him. His vision went hazy, a sudden rush of blood to the head rendering his balance useless. He swallowed hard, blinking away the blur, the pain. "I want you to tell me who you are right now," he said, his voice shaking, "and do not bullshit me."

She swallowed and nodded. "I'm not-"

"Look at me when you say it."

She swung her feet to the other side of the bed and stared up at him. She looked strained, sad. She began.

"I'm not from Kansas City, and I've never been a ballerina. I came from Los Angeles, same as you." A tear made a glistening trail down her face, but her voice stayed steady and calm. "I had been with the LAPD for a year when I got a call from Bernie Rose. Before that point, I'd never spoken with him or seen him in my entire life. I'd busted a drug ring that he was running and somehow, he'd gotten my name, where I lived, my parent's names - all of my information." Another tear. "He told me that since I'd put his most lucrative operation out of business, I now owed him. $500,000 to be exact, a fee he said would only increase with 'interest'. He said that he knew I was a good cop. He said something like, 'I know what you can do...', something like that. He told me that in order to repay my debt, I needed to get rid of a few people for him. One of them was Nico's nephew - it was a job that he himself wasn't willing to do. Another was a rival king pin. The last one was you."

She stared down at the ground, and a tear made its way from the corner of her eye, down her nose, and dropped to the floor. "I followed you for about a week before you left LA. I went to your apartment and saw you with this little Hispanic kid-"

"Benecio," he said, the name like a ghost to him now.

"And I assumed he was your son. So I told Bernie that I wouldn't do it. He told me that if I didn't, he'd kill my father. Interestingly enough, I hadn't spoken to my dad in two years, but the last time we spoke, I remember him mentioning some kid that worked in his garage. A driver that he'd hired for half of what he normally pays, who could fix a car in less than an hour and was good enough to drive for the movies. He loved you like a son, D."

A feeling of realization washed over him, harsh and bone chillingly cold. "Shannon was your father?"

A slight and sad smile graced her lips for a moment. "Imagine my surprise when I found out that the man I was fighting to protect was already dead."

He let out a sigh to keep from sobbing, steadied himself on the wall to keep from falling over.

She continued. "Perhaps the most interesting part of this story is how I finally met you. Bernie called me and said that you had fled. He'd had a tail on you, and told me that I needed to get to Kansas City as soon as possible. The ballet angle was his idea - he told me you liked girls who were innocent, and the plan was to wait until you stopped to eat somewhere, then seduce you. I realize now that would have been impossible." She looked up, seeing if her words had brought on a response, but there was none. "Gustavo, the Hispanic guy I killed at the gas station? He called me after he wrecked on the exit and told me to get in my car and follow you. When you hit me, I was crossing the street to do just that. I thought it was over at that point, but when you got out of the car, I saw an opportunity to play on your sympathy. You took the bait." Her tears flowed more fluidly now, forming a wet spot on the carpet below. "But then I met you and realized I was never going to do it. That's why I killed him," she pointed to the man on the floor, "I told him that I wasn't going to do it, and he got violent. And anything that's happened between you and me - that wasn't a lie. I made love to you because I...D, I really -"

"Stop. I don't want to hear anymore."

"Please, I didn't have a choice!"

He closed the gap between them and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her violently. "YOU ALWAYS HAD A FUCKING CHOICE!" He stopped and stared at her, stared through her, his eyes blazing. He panted for a moment in the silence, trying to contain himself, to keep from strangling her. "You could have told me at any time. But you didn't. I _trusted _you, more than I have ever trusted anyone, and you lied to me."

She let out a sob. "You can still trust me."

He let go of her, a feeling of stupidity, rage, sadness, and mourning spreading through him slowly, as if someone had cracked an egg on his head. He'd thought he'd never been safer than with B, a facade that had come crashing down in front of his eyes. Everything he'd ever known with her was a lie - the most painful and damaging lie he'd ever encountered. He stood back and stared at her as she cried on the bed, and found that he still wanted to comfort her, a realization that only made him angrier.

"I want you to leave," he said, his voice still trembling, "I don't care where you go, and I don't care how you get there, but I never want to see you again."

She looked up at him with teary eyes. "D, they'll kill me. They already know I'm here."

"Then you should leave soon." He turned away from her and stared out the window.

She stared down at her hands, which shook uncontrollably, and sobbed a few more times before she pulled herself together enough to stand. She limped pathetically to the door, reaching for the knob. She paused.

"I love you, D," she said calmly.

He swallowed as the silence fell between them, the deafening, bone crushing silence. He took a deep breath.

"Don't call me that," he said.

She nodded slowly, then opened the door and crossed the threshold.

He watched out the window and she limped across the parking lot and down half a sidewalk before she disappeared behind the lobby of the motel.

He spent the better part of an hour crying.


	9. Chapter 9

The Driver spent a long time in Dallas, longer than he should have. It had taken him a day to get there from Wichita, one of the slowest drives he'd ever made in his life. He was still jilted from B's confession, and he moved around in a haze, an air so thick you could cut it with a knife. He had kept checking his rear view mirror, half-expecting to see her there, her brilliant eyes staring back at him, her lips curled in a little half smile.

But she wasn't there, and he was alone. He'd never been so alone in all his life, and that was saying something.

He pretended to watch CSPAN in the motel room, keeping one eye on the door, the other on the forty in his hand, a paper bag rolled around its shoulders like a white trash feather boa. He hardly ever drank - it reeked of disappointment and a nasty childhood - but these days, the alcohol seemed to be his only comfort. The sun shone in the window, splintering through the blinds and assaulting his eyes. He hadn't showered in a few days, his five o'clock shadow had started to make its way down his neck. His face ached, his broken nose housing a boring physical pain that B had left in her wake. Here and there it would begin to bleed again, as if his body were desperately trying to purge the memory of her. His knuckles were bloody and cracked from a bar room brawl the night before, the flesh beginning to bruise over, black and blue.

If you'd had happened upon him there, you might have thought he was dead. The man on the television spoke, but he heard nothing, saw nothing. The silence had descended on him like a shroud, the numbness of alcohol washing over him in a wave.

Very suddenly, a ringing noise broke the silence, harsh and full of the ferocity of the Hell his life had become. He did nothing, thinking for a moment that it was all in his head, that he was dreaming.

Then it rang again.

His eyes flickered about the room. He'd never kept a cell phone - too easy to trace - and wherever this one was, it wasn't making itself obvious. It rang a third time, shaking the surface that housed it violently. He stood up for the first time in hours, his head reeling from the sudden rush of blood. He steadied himself on the bed and spied it - the lamp on the bedside table was vibrating ever so slightly.

He rushed to it and opened the drawer, batting the bible aside. Sure enough, a red Blackberry sat beneath it, impatiently dancing around the wooden box it sat in. He picked it up and studied it, the caller ID sending a chill up his spine.

"Rose," he whispered to himself.

A pulse of disbelief, of cynicism rushed through him. Someone had left it here, someone's girlfriend was named Rose, and now she was calling this missing phone. It's just a coincidence.

_In all your life as what you are, have you ever been privy to coincidences?_

"No," he said. He pressed the talk button and lifted it to his ear.

He didn't have to say anything for the other end to start speaking.

"What is it with you and pretty girls?" asked a high pitched, yet menacing voice.

The Driver paused and listened to the man's steady breathing, the static white noise that filled in over it. He swallowed hard. "Bernie," he said softly.

"As much as I'd like to dwell on sentiment, I don't really have the time, so I'll make this quick. You stabbed me in a parking lot and left me for dead. After everything I did for you, you turned around and fucked me. So, that being said, I'd like to meet somewhere. Maybe have a little chat. I'm not a man of romance, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want vengeance, a little tit for tat. You know what I'm saying?"

The Driver swallowed and rushed to the blinds, spreading them hastily and scanning the empty parking lot.

As if he knew the Driver's panic, Bernie said, "Don't worry, there's no one watching you. There's no one around to make you do anything. That, actually, is the beauty of this entire thing. You don't necessarily _have _to do what I say. But I came prepared for that."

There were clicking noises as the phone was handed off to someone else, a long pause of dead air, then the sound of heavy breathing.

"D?" asked a weak voice on the other end.

A feeling of sadness, of rage and fear expanded within him all at the same time. His eyes flickered, and he staggered backward and fell to the bed again. "B," he said, his voice shaking.

She let out a sigh and a slight sob, then sniffled until she had calmed herself. "Listen," she said, and her voice was suddenly stronger, determined even, "whatever they tell you, do not come and get me. Please. There is nothing but death for you here -"

She yelped as a smacking noise came from the other end of the line. He winced. The clicking noises came again.

"So," said Bernie, "now that you know I mean business, here's what I want. B, as you've so affectionately named her, owes me $500,000, a sum which she has failed to work off."

The Driver swallowed. "You want the money?"

There was a pause as the click of saliva on the other end let him know that Bernie was smiling that awful smile of his. "There's a warehouse not too far from the Dallas Cowboys Stadium - a place where they used to make candy bars. If you're not here in three hours with the cash, she dies. But so help me God - and I want to make this very clear - if you come here and try to pull anything, I will gut her right in front of you. Do you understand me?"

"I understand."

"Good."

"Bernie," he said suddenly, a slight panic in his voice, "wait. Can I speak to her? Please?"

Bernie laughed a terrible laugh, a laugh which went on for an exorbitant amount of time. "Sure kid."

There were clicks as the phone was passed to her again. "Hello?" she asked. Her voice was strained, damaged, all the pain and suffering he had felt for her personified in one word.

He smiled a little, despite the situation. He knew it was hopeless, knew that today, he would die. But to hear her voice again - that was enough for him.

"Hi, B," he said softly, a tear coming to his eye. "I just wanted to let you know that I made a mistake. I just wanted to tell you that...that I love-"

"I know. I love you too."

He swallowed again, and sighed. "I'm coming to get you."

"Don't," she said, her voice broken with tears.

He paused, a deafening silence to end all silences. "You have given me something I never thought I could have. Thank you, B."

"Avery. My name is Avery."

He smiled wider than he had in his entire life, and a tear made its way down his cheek. "Thank you, Avery. I'll see you in three hours."

She cleared her throat. "I'll see you in two." Click.

Silence.


End file.
